shackled in my embrace
by Phoebe Dynamite
Summary: "Those texts, Kate. Those damn texts." A three-part prelude to 8x09. Smut ahead.
1. The first time

_**The first time.**_

The front door is unlocked. Of course it is. She had given him little but enough warning, and there were just times when she didn't fucking feel like knocking; it was _her_ home. So she strides inside, walks through the cobweb of memories haunting the frame, the memory of how she had turned, walked out, but not shut the damn door. She pushes on through it with determination, with heat.

He's in his office. He when looks up, alerted by the staccato of her heels against the floor, he offers her that all-compassing smile, the one that's goofy and leering and just happy all at once somehow. It finds its target in her vulnerable heart instantly, just like always, but she keeps moving for him, a tigress with her prey in plain sight, his neck totally exposed to her.

Her attack is more intense than even she had anticipated, but damn if she isn't already sinking straight into it, plunging into his mouth with a hunger that makes it clear that this is not a "lunch meeting" where she'll only be having one helping.

She'll never get tired of that groan, how it starts as one of surprise but smooths out, gaining depth and texture as he gives himself over fully to their mutual lust. His fingers – the ones that have typed out their story, that have cracked against the jaw of a hitman, that have held hers time and time again with the implicit promise of togetherness – dig into the hair at her nape with a pressure and possessiveness that makes her vibrate like a plucked string. His other hand, meanwhile, is groping at the hem of her dress, determined and graceless all at once, to a staggeringly arousing effect. But there's a fierceness in her that combats, that battles for dominance precisely because she wants him to w _rench_ it back from her.

"No," she snarls, smacking his hand away at the wrist. She smirks against his mouth when she feels him reel like a teenage boy being denied a pass at the head cheerleader. "No time. No naked. Just fuck me."

He sinks his teeth into bottom lip with a growl, making her respond with an obscene sound of her own. Without a word of either protest or consent, he wraps his hands at her elbows and deepens their kiss only to tighten his grip and spin her around, leaving her swollen and puckering and sucking in air. He crowds into her from behind, not employing real forcefulness, but his legs trapping and putting pressure on the backs of her already weakened knees means that she is bent over the bed in no time, her spine arching, her every nerve igniting with sweet anticipation.

The bottom of her black sweater dress is bunched around her waist quickly but with all the precision of man who relishes his ability to see, to touch, to reveal to his exact specifications. He runs a hand down one cheek and she shivers, the effect rippling out even farther when she hears the give of his zipper and feel the caressing fingers latch onto her hip. How perfectly they fit like this, in these ways through which they can express their need for one another, when their opposing magnetic centers crash together.

He doesn't bother with teasing, but _damn_ does he go slow, like he's fueling an ache, pressing on a tender bruise, drawing it out while giving in. She knows how much he must love her wetness – it's not just a feeling but a sound, their coupling one that demands the attention of every single sense – and she can practically feel the way his breath bottoms out in her own chest.

"So hard," she mutters, pressing her forehead to the mattress as he fills her to the hilt. Stealing his moment, his usual time for commentary on how she is _fucking soaked, Jesus, Kate_.

He moves, a pistol-fast withdrawal before bearing down slowly but with demand. "How could I not be?" he bites into the back of her neck. She feels the pull of a few strands of hair getting caught between his snapping teeth. "Those texts, Kate. Those damn texts." He moans, a highly stimulated _ahhh_ escaping as he starts to move her from her hips along his dick. He's picking up speed; that means he's being mentally excited as well as physically.

"You liked that?"

" _Liked that_? Fuck, Kate, I don't think I'll ever be able to wake up any other way without you again." He's pounding into her now, completely in control, driving her against him, in contrast with the way his lips nuzzle into the fabric covering her spine. "I got so fucking hard the second I saw that picture and imagined you drawing the blinds in your office, relaxing into your chair, getting your camera ready, spreading your legs…"

Whether consciously or not, his knees are encouraging hers to go wider, and then the full weight of her upper body is being pressed into the bed by his. He's got leverage now, kneeling on the edge of the mattress, and she's just reaching up for purchase, clawing at the opposite end, stretching herself as if to be able to take even more of him into her. It's pure, carnal bliss. She _knew_ sending those pictures with nothing but the words "Get ready for your lunch" was a good idea.

He's chanting her name now, fumbling to draw her hair away from her neck so that he can nudge his nose against her turtleneck. He inhales her scent like an addict as his hips reach a feverish gallop against her, bucking, barely restrained.

" _Casssttttle_ …."

His hand swoops in and slightly lifts her lower belly before his thumb snakes down and finds her needy and engorged. The confidence with which he sends her towards a spiral is only rivaled by how amazing it is for her when he spirals out himself. He cries out with no care for volume or thought to temper his desperate pitch. Her name is the sexiest whine as he draws it out of his throat, his hips frenzied, his thumb unrelenting. His body spasms around her, and it makes her feel so safe and loved, to know he willingly made her his own safe space, his place of release, when his heart is truly such a guarded, precious thing.

A thing she crushed under the ball of her foot as she pivoted and walked out.

Her orgasm is a tidal wave, that endless tightening before contracting, that pulsing release, and she screams out how good he fucks her as it takes her.

* * *

A/N: Title is taken from "Latch" by Disclosure. Characters are well loved by me but are not mine.


	2. The second one

**_The second one._**

"Yeah, baby? I'm good for you?"

Is that what she had said, screamed, forced into these walls that hid their secret union on a hoarse but triumphant blast as her orgasm tore through her? She couldn't remember – didn't think that was what she had exactly said – but it was hard to remember through the drowsy haze that settled so completely over her body. And now, now his lips were inscribing the words on the backs of her thighs, keeping her lit up, never letting the fire go out…

…fuck it, even if she didn't say it, she _means_ it.

He's so very bad for her because he makes her desperate. Desperate to keep him alive, safe, whole, able to look at the world with some measure of trust and faith and goodness. He's so very bad for her because s _he would die if she lost him_. But he's the best thing that has ever happened to her. He is beyond any dream she ever had of her life, even in the best of times. He is coffee in the morning and encouragement throughout the day and a warm, willing, wanting body at night. He is more home than anything ever has been, and there is no greater obsession than the one she has to fight for him.

 _So good, baby. So fucking good_.

"Yeah? Yeah, so good for you, baby. Gonna make it so good for you."

She must have said that out loud; doesn't matter. He's breathless, and the threadbare voice that remains is strung through with delight, with joyful determination. He has already ripped her apart and left this heaving, heavily satisfied puddle of a woman on the bed, and he isn't anywhere close to finished unmaking her.

His lips find her center, allowing himself just a taste of her, allowing her just a taste of him and his eagerness and desire, and she's just on the right side of sensitive. She hears even more than she feels the way her nails tear across the sheets.

He's kneading her thighs and slightly parting her cheeks, helping himself to the outpouring she can't possibly staunch. No one has ever done this to her, not even close. The moans he buries inside her seem to echo, seem to travel, because she's emitting something similar, drawn from the same deep well of passion and need. The press of his tongue, the curl of it along her – how had she ever willing gone without it?

She's keening and tearing at her dress, the stark, black need of the past few months taking a solid, singular form and pushing against her like a barrel against the back of her skull, literally forcing her hand. Once she's free of the fabric she's roughly palming her breasts, muscle memory taking over, unraveling the tentative weave of achieved bliss and hastily stitching a rough patchwork of desperation and denial in its place.

Suddenly she's on her back; suddenly he's over her, his arms a fortress for her quivering body. Through a set of heavy blinks she remembers the way he leaned over her on their first night together, but now he's not tentative, breathing through nerves and the airlessness of standing on the precipice of all that he wants. This confident man has steel in his eyes. He draws his gaze unrepentantly from her flushed face down her body, mapping her like he's recalling every mark he's ever made on her, like he's making all sorts of devious – and permanent – plans. He's going to alter her, continue the work he's been doing since day one. And oh, how she'll welcome it. Gladly.

He peels her fingers off of her skin and places them, his thumbs running along her life lines, against his pecs. There's only one heavy, overheated moment of silence and stillness before she's traipsing her hands down his stomach and pulling his cotton shirt up over his head, plowing through his mussed hair afterward. The warm skin of his stomach kisses hers as they breathe together. His lips are littering little kisses against her jaw, leaving her sighs to bloom in the wake of his attentive planting.

"Did you touch yourself while you were away from me?" he demands, his voice husky, his hands true to their aim when they pin her wrists back. He lifts his head and looks into her eyes. His hips are starting to circle between her legs, each completed motion darkening his irises like he's mixing paints, different shades of blue.

"Did it feel this good?" His cock has come back to life and is stirring with impatience against her. "Did you miss how good I make it for you?"

"Yes." The answer leaves her lips even though it's evident, all over her. "I missed your fingers, and your mouth." With a surge of strength she frees her right hand from his bruising grip and seizes his dick, her fingers forming to the soft, pink skin, meeting the pulsing hardness with her own fervor. "I missed how deep you go inside me. I'm empty without you."

She sees his eyes shutter for a moment, like a light blinking in a storm – their storm – and then he's grunting and burying himself inside her again. She shuts her eyes slowly as they melt into each other, her muscles welcoming, his solid weight a piercing presence she never wants to excise. Her knees graze his ribs and her heels find purchase against his ass and she conforms to him, because it's easy, because together, they're flawless.

" _Beckett_ ," he breathes as they meet each other again and again and again. "Fuck, fuck, _Kate_. You are so goddamn good for me, too, baby. Everything I've ever wanted."

She hangs onto his neck when she surges up. They ride it out together, renewing promises in sweat, making new ones in whimpers.

* * *

A/N: Thank you so much for your interest in this little story. Please review if you feel so compelled. One more _agenda_ to go.


	3. Third and final

_**Third and final.**_

Her whole body curls around him. Everything about him is so warm. She distantly remembers how, before she allowed him passage through the rubble and into her heart, she would wonder what his skin would feel like against hers, and it's so much better than she ever imagined. His is a warmth that has been infused in her body, and when she's not near the source, she craves it desperately.

Sudden tears prick her eyes. How had she slept apart from him?

She holds on tighter. Her husband, the love of her life.

He's breathing against her temple, and it's husky, so intimate and threaded through with arousal, even as it comforts. His big hands are clambering along her back like he needs to keep her here. But doesn't he know that she could never really be anywhere else? She's keening now, mewling at his touch and his invasion of every part of her, and trying without words to tell him that she's so sorry, that knowing she caused him pain is a thorn she can't dig out of her side, but god _dammit_ the thought of anyone laying a finger on him has a wail scraping past her teeth and her nails sinking between his ribs.

He snakes a hand between them as he sits them both up, cradling her against him like she's weightless. He's taking control again, but this time it's not a force of nature. This time he's just a man who loves his wife, who knows her tells, knows how to respond to that ferocious clawing of pain and desire currently splintering her apart. He leans back against the headboard and lets her body mold to his as his fingers trek across her skin, descending between her legs.

"Again," he breathes against her eye as he slips inside. Her mouth opens wide against the stubbly column of his neck, teeth glancing off his tendons while his lips adhere to her paper-thin lid. "Again, Beckett. Need to feel you again. Need you all the time."

He curls, and he crooks, and he presses deep with the very need he's claiming of himself, and oh, she's no different, no better, because she wraps her fingers around his wrist and holds on for the ride. Needs to be part of this, in this with him, for every single second. She is his wife. She looked into his eyes and made promises. And she will keep making promises. She will keep making him see.

She opens her eyes, locks them on his. His stare penetrates as deeply as his fingers, and they break her apart just as intensely. A full-body shudder, with her head tilted back, her moans careening off into cries of slow-burning ecstasy. And all the while his hand on the small of her back, encouraging and keeping her. All the while his warmth seeping into her everywhere they touch.

"Always gonna need you," she confesses against the perfect pillow of his chest when it all begins to recede. "Always, babe."

He laces his fingers with hers and kisses her knuckle, lips and teeth catching on her wedding band. The hum he sets free against her skin travels along every single channel inside her. Her wordless writer, her unconditional lover, her redemption. Her lunch meeting, for as long as he leaves the door unlocked.

She glances down at her ring and smiles to know how long that might just be.

 _Now I've got you in my space  
I won't let go of you  
Got you shackled in my embrace  
I'm latching on to you_

A/N: Thank you for your support of this little thing. Not quite sure what it was or how I feel about it, but I so appreciate your reading, following, and reviewing. Big hugs to you all!


End file.
